The Grounded (And other things from Skaro)
by The Wishbone
Summary: This isn't about the Doctor. This is about an ordinary woman, if not for her quarter life crisis and her struggle with the law (as a New York City cop). It is also about a Dalek; the black one that skulks around Midtown West, that everyone hoped had died eighty years ago. Both know how to hate. One knows what it is to truly be human. And one can close a porthole to Skaro .
1. Chapter 1: 2008

Chapter One: 2009

Children aren't stupid. They are right to be frightened, as there is always something to fear.

Trains are an example, mundane, ordinary.

And terrifying if your little.

The cargo train screams. It passes, the ground quaking, carriage after carriage after carriage. It never ends. Dozens of ugly shipping containers sit on its back, grimy and tattooed with graffiti. I just stand there, averting my eyes but secretly enjoying the motion. It's exhilarating. How any ordinary machine can be so powerful? And so long. I shudder when I think of the thousands of miles it must travel before it reaches its destination.

A little child would be upset by the noise and cry. It is the raucous call of a nightmare monster.

Finally the deafening roars die down. Then silence. I am able to see the other people on the opposite platform, and see how they all appear drab and tired. The youths just look angry. I see a boy, probably no older than seventeen. He has olive skin and a large forehead, and he wears a hooded jumper. But when he looks up, the whites of his eyes contrast against wary black pupils. He looks thin and angry. It is the face of a man who wants justice. I rub my arms, wishing I'd brought a sweater.

"You going straight home Eliza?" My Dad asks from next to me. I nod.

"Yeah."

"Not going to see Mom again?"

Why does he still call her that?

His train is squealing towards us.

I look at my Dad. He smiles. He is a wiry specimen, with long arms the color of ebony, and a pair of glasses that make his head look small. He is shorter than I remember.

The train rumbles in, the air chilling as it passes. Once again, exhilaration rises up through the ground.

We embrace. But it feels too stiff, too awkward.

"It was nice to see you." I tell him, and I mean it. Half heartedly.

He smiles again.

"You should really come and stay with us in Chicago." He invites. "You'll really like it; it's just your kind of place. Very lively. And Christine is dying to meet you."

Is it Dad? Does she? I do not voice my doubt, but we both feel it. Time has driven a rift between us as wide and parallel as the rail tracks. Among the passengers that are flowing onto the train, I think I see something move at the end of the platform. Something large. Not a person.

We embrace again, and I want to hold him warmly, more honestly, like I did when I was a kid. Back when I could trust him, and when I was brighter, and the world looked brighter too. More happy.

We part.

"See you soon tiger." He says with a wink.

I nod, tickled by the use of my old nickname. He boards the train, dragging his case. I see a glimpse of shabby interior behind the door. I think I hear him whistling. The doors slide shut, thudding unsympathetically. Then slowly, I watch powerless as the gray and blue wall slides away. I follow it, walking along side as the wheels begin to clatter. Like I did when I was nine. I peek through the darkened windows, seeing the grim faces of the passengers. And the small face of my Dad. He waves, I wave back, coyly. Then he's gone.

I stand, watching as the rear of the train grows smaller and smaller, amidst the spiders web of wires cables and beams that sprawl across the horizon.

Then I see it.

Right at the end of the platform is the Machine.

I stare, not conscious or caring of whether my mouth hangs open or not.

It is large, but only about as tall as an average man. Taller than me anyhow. It is made entirely out of metal. It's black. And it looks a little like a conical tank.

I have no idea what it's for. Or why it is here. Or why it has a sink plunger sticking out of its middle like an arm.

But something tells me that this is definitely a thing to be afraid of.

The people who pass it give it little attention, apart from throwing it curious glances. Some people have taken photos of it.

As I watch now, it is facing the edge of the platform, out towards the north. Its color makes me think of a posh car, like an Audi. Or the kind the Mafia would drive in.

Then it turns. Its domed head first, and then the rest of it. When it faces me, I see a long broad stalk that protrudes like a cannon from its domed head. And at the end glows a circular, icy blue light. It stops. The light pointing in my direction like the headlight of a car. And I feel my skin craw because it appears to stare like an eye. Then it just glides across the platform, a faint mechanical whine emulating from its body. People stare now. It is coming in my direction.

Feeling a shudder, I turn and head for the exit. I hate that thing. It frightens me. It is like a strange artifact, that has some important or murderous purpose that I cannot lay a finger on, but I should be able to. It is the way I would feel if I was staring at some predator.

It is unearthly.

When I was really little, I used to sit on the swing in our back yard and stare at the stars, late in the evenings. I used to wonder how far away they were, and if there was anything living there.

Then I would go and ask my Mom what she thought.

"The stars are just fire." She would say. "They are only there to shine down on Earth. Nothing lives out there Eliza. Only light."

I never liked this explanation. It made everything feel empty. Besides, in science class we were told that the stars were made of burning gasses like the sun. When I told Mom this, she would laugh and say that God set the gas alight in the first place. God was nice. But Mom didn't think about things very scientifically.

I would go and ask Dad instead.

"Well, tell me what you think Eliza?" He would ask me, sitting in his chair at the kitchen table, holding a cigarette and marking essays. I liked this question better. So I told him that I thought space had to have other things living in it because it was so huge, and it would be almost impossible for it to be empty. Oh, the good old days. The luxury of not being afraid. Dad would nod, lips creased earnestly. "Sounds good." he would tell me.

Sometimes when we had these conversations, one of us would look up, or turn around to see Mom standing by the door, her face thunderous. For some reason she didn't like me talking about that kind of thing. When I went out to play, sometimes I'd hear her arguing with Dad.

"Don't encourage her Theodore! Thinking nonsense like that!"

"Come on, give the girl a chance! She has a right to think what she wants."

By now, I'd be back on the swing again, wondering what I'd done wrong. Mom and Dad were fighting more and more these days. On these occasions, Malcolm would sidle up to me, holding his ball under his arm. He would blame me for these fights. He didn't tell me this, but I could see it in his face. _Just keep your mouth shut Eliza_. Yeah, maybe that would have helped us all a bunch.

So yeah, as a kid I had a lot of issues. Little ones, but issues none the less.

One was my Mom and Dad. I still don't know why I was surprised when they announced the split when I was heading off to join the Police.

One was Susanna Watkins at Ballet class.

Another was the big boys at school.

A later one was Pot.

Oh yeah.

And that black metal tank thing that hung about in Chelsea.

It was something you just saw occasionally, but never really thought about. Not too much. Like a street sweeper, it glided about, only there in the early mornings. Some days I'd be walking home from school, having just said goodbye to Melanie, and there it would be; disappearing down an alleyway. Stopped by a dumpster. One time, I swear I even saw it on the roof of a building, like a security camera. And it would scare me shitless. I didn't even know why. I would ask my family about this too. Malcolm first.

"I think it's some kind of cleaning machine." He would shrug, arranging his action figures along his shelf. Obviously he had seen it too, so he knew what I was talking about. "I guess it unblocks toilets or something, 'cos it has that plunger thingy on it."

Naturally I was disgusted.

"It glows blue though." I'd inform him. "On the telescope bit on top of its head."

Malcolm would shrug again. He did that a lot. Grunted too. My parents always told him how smart he was because of his grades, but I didn't see much of that. "Maybe it has a camera in there and that's how it sees what it's doing."

I'd pick up Optimus Prime with a snigger, turning the little plastic model in my hand.

"Maybe it's really a killer robot an' it's out there to kill us all!"

"Oh, yeah, sure! HELP!" Malcolm, without warning he would flip round and clamp his grubby hand over my face, I would scream and push him. He had cooties. "The evil plunger robot of shitty bathrooms has come to terminate us! Arrrrrgh!" Then he'd start chasing me round his room, wearing his trash can on his head, and I'd nearly die from the combination of giggling too much and nearly tripping on the hazardous amount of stuff that adorned the floor. "We're all gonna die! It'll get stuck to people's faces and never come off!"

Then we'd laugh until our sides ripped open, then go to dinner, even though it was never that funny.

In hindsight the conversation seemed a little ironic

The thought stuck with me though. The machine kind of reminded me of something out of a sci fi movie. Star Wars. Oh yeah. I wouldn't call myself a nerd, but how can anyone not love those films? Even if there _is_ only one female character.

I liked Malcolm's theory that it was a robot. It made sense. And even more exciting, as it was so weird...it was probably from outer space. Which would mean Mum was wrong.

And more importantly mean that there _were_ things out there. And then, at long last, all my prayers were answered.

My life could turn exciting. And I would be having an adventure.

Back in the blissful days when the word "Dalek" had never invaded my vocabulary.


	2. Chapter 2: November

Edward Harrison was a man admired among men. A true hero; a symbol of the American dream. He had risen in his life from the depths of poverty, to own a seven bedroom house on Staten Island. While so many were cynical and complained of the new housing projects set up by FDR, he had worked his bones bear to create a better America for the future. He can even be observed in the newsreels that circulated in 1934.

By 1952, he had fought the Kaiser in the Great War and Hitler in the next, despite his occasional nervous tick, returned to New York with the woman he loved, was married and had four sons who grew up to have astonishingly good careers. He lived a full life, enriched by his love of sport and nature spotting, and left the world peacefully in 2006.

Which made no sense what so ever.

Because on November the first in 1930, a bronze UFO had shot him dead in the middle of Central Park, with many witnesses present, and many other victims. Out of all those who became casualties that night, he was the only thought to have recovered. But due to the unusual circumstances of the attack, his sustained injury was described as "Shell shock" and largely ignored.

On November the second, several bodies were removed from a small Theater in Midtown West, while the detonated remains of two UFOs were taken away by the authorities for scientific research.

It was not until January 18th of the following year that the remains of the last victim of the theater massacre were buried in an unmarked grave.

But none of the volunteers recalled having actually seen the body.

It was the same year that Mrs Esmé Stuart returned from her honeymoon in Florida to discover that her brother had been declared missing. He had disappeared mysteriously from his post as manager of a major building project. Everyone said he had jumped, as the funding body behind the project had suddenly withdrawn their support, leaving him redundant. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to reveal the good news that a private company was now investing the project. And even more unfortunately; the building in question happened to be the tallest building in the world at the time. No body was found. But then again, people had been disappearing a lot recently.


	3. Chapter 3: Melanie

It's just gone 2 am. I'm lying on my sofa, bottle of vodka open by my head. Vern has just left. The room had been dark, as it was when he entered, as it was twenty minutes later when we were tangled together, and as it is now that he's gone.

I had lain there, stiff as a board, almost oblivious to what he was doing, until in the end he slid off, sitting on the floor in dreadful silence.

"You don't like it." He broke it by saying.

"No; it's not that." I protested, tired, but not exactly lying. A pause followed.

"Nah. It's alright." He mumbled, his voice merely a sound in the room somewhere, his form a shape and no more. "You used to be fun though girl. You don't care anymore; that's your issue."

"Vern, please. It's not that. I guess I'm... just not in the mood tonight."

"Fuck it."

He stood up, his shape more visible against the orange glow behind the Venetian blinds. I watched him stoop, come up again, with the ridiculous shape of his Man bag swinging from his shoulder. "If it's gonna be like that, then it's not going to work at all. Hai Capito?"

The door handle crunched as it closed. One frozen minute later, I started finishing the bottle he had accidentally left.

I'm an idiot. It's an official fact. But seeing my Dad leave again this afternoon knocked the stuffing out of me. And I was stupid enough to go all sentimental again.

I was his little girl. I _still_ am his little girl, and always will be, to him anyway. What am I doing sleeping round with men I barely know? If he knew! If he knew what a corrupt, dirty, evil, slut of a human being I'd turned out to be? What would that do to him? I want to puke. The room vibrates. Maybe I've had enough vodka.

Despite this new sentiment, I take another swig. When I put it down again I realize my face is wet. I'm crying like the drunken fool I am. Thank God the bottle was already almost empty, otherwise I will probably die.

A twenties car horn howls through the room, and it is illuminated slightly from a little light on the coffee table. My phone. I have a phone? Oh yeah, of course I do.

I pick it up. Press the pick up button to stop the infernal noise.

"_ELIZA!_" It screams, making me groan! "You would not BELIEVE who we just saw!"

"Who... Marlin Brando?" I guess. My voice sounds like the final croak of a road kill frog. Personally I thought that was a pretty good guess.

"_Oh_ shut_ up! Fashion ball? Remember? At college?_" Fashion college. Melanie. I have a friend called Melanie. What a coincidence. Wait. This is her now. "_Lillian Genovese! Does that name mean anything to you?!_"

I nod my head enthusiastically, and then remember that it doesn't, so shake it. Then I remember she can't actually see me.

"_Eliza? Hello?_"

"Hi."

"..._You're drunk, aren't you?_"

Now the room is doing an impression of a carousel. Wow; she's good.

"Oh. Vern just left." I explain.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. I can hear the murmur and laughter of conversation, and the heavy beat of music.

"_Oh he did, did he?_" her voice comes back, like a disapproving Lauren Bacall. Her voice was always weirdly deep for one so skinny. Annoyingly voluptuous, but skinny none the less. "_Well I bet he did._"

I push myself into a sitting position. I'm having a déjà vu. I remember one of those moments when me and this girl were both in high school, crying over her break up with Roger. Now I need her to cry on.

"_Listen, Eliza._" She continues. "_I've told you he's not worth it. You deserve someone so much better. You don't deserve the kind of crap they give you._"

"That is so cliched Melanie. You know that right?" I say. Then I sob. "Come here and talk to me. I need you so bad."

"_You know I can't. One of us accepted their offer, remember? I could probably come round tomorrow."_

"Why does everyone have to keep bringing the college thing up?"

"_Because that was really stupid and people are going to let you know that as penance. Just don't do anything stupid. Do you still have alcohol on you?_"

I rub a hand over my face, the tears burning my skin. I pick up the bottle, and realize it's empty.

"Don't now."

"_You're such a hypocrite. Bad influence to the public; you're a Cop!_"

"Love you too. Enjoy your show Melanie." Then I remember what happened at the train station. "Oh, by the way, I saw that robot again."

For a long time, Melanie doesn't say anything. Then at last: "_Where was it?_"

Her voice has a cold quality; all her peppy self-assured vigor has vanished. Suddenly she sounds a little afraid.

"It was...oh...it was...at the train station. Dad left again too."

She makes no remark. No "oh you poor thing" or "come on over and have a Martini" for me then.

"_Well what did...what was it doing?_"

"Oh, just, nothing." her sudden apprehension is beginning to annoy me. I want to talk about me, not some fucking alien tank in our local area that we are mutually aware of. I curse myself for mentioning it. "It wasn't doing anything."

"G_ood. Just stay away from it, okay?_"

"Why? It's not dangerous or anything."

"_You don't know that_." This last statement rings ominously through the speaker. Too ominous for a party goer. I swallow, suddenly feeling a little more sober.

"Neither do you. Look; if I'm not dead by tomorrow I can handle the supernatural. Enjoy your party."

I hear her relax.

"_Thanks. I will. Are you actually still in the police force?_"

"Kind of."

"_I thought you said you'd quit!_"

"I will quit. I'm quitting...tomorrow."

"_Fuck you are. Go for it girl._"

"Love you."

"_Love you too. Got to go, don't die please._"

I put down the phone. Thank God for friends.

I'm lucky to have Melanie. Most people aren't that patient.

I also realize she's right about Vern. Sure, I feel wounded, but who is he anyway? He's like a stray dog who I've kept feeding. Picked him up one night at a club; now he won't leave me alone.

Well, I've had it with him. If I'm a frigid, so what? I'm my own human being. Surely it isn't that petty to value my parents. And besides, what does he know about anything? He's just some white dude who flips pancakes and cleans tables at a bar.

I chuckle to myself.

Then I recon I crash, because next time I open my eyes there's puke all down my cheek, the sun is pretending to be an atom bomb, and my head is going to explode.

Melanie was always frightened of the Dalek. Yes. I call it a Dalek now. Because that's what it called itself when it slunk away that afternoon. i often forget that. She refused to talk about it and would often change the subject, even though we talked about everything else together.

I liked Melanie. Still do. She was probably the chicest, prettiest, most wanted girl in the whole of fourth grade, without dressing like a hooker (because plenty did despite only being, what, nine?). Oh. And she also happened to be my best friend.

We went to a public school in Chelsea, which in general was where we lived. I liked it because they did dance classes, and actually cared about what you wanted to do in life. I loved dance. But Melanie loved art. Clothes in particular. She had this scrap book she used to bring in. It was a lovely thing, all filled with pictures from magazines, scraps of fabric; floral, dog-tooth, paisley prints. Each page had beautiful little designs scribbled all over it. It even smelt good (she told me later she used to spray perfume on it, which I thought was a little excessive).

Whenever we walked home together, she would talk non-stop, her lively brown eyes lighting up when she got excited.

But she was always a little...odd too.

For example, she used to freak us out a little when we played netball on a hot day. While we ran around like crazy, getting sweaty and tired, she would instantly wander over to the bench against the wall, where the sun baked it most of the day, and lie on it. Lie on her stomach, arms hanging down by her sides. It would remind me of an iguana I used to see at the zoo in Central Park. The teacher, Mr Hawk, would try and get her to stand up, and would shout, but she wouldn't move. It was like she was asleep, but her eyes were always open a crack. It was kind of freaky.

The other kids would call her a retard, and throw things at her. When I asked her about it, she would smile. A stretched, awkward smile.

"I just like it when it's sunny." She would tell me. For some reason her parents had been really mad when they were told about the incident. I saw her Mom yelling at her in the playground, and she was crying, and wailing that she was sorry.

Right about the sun though; she would go all sluggish in the winter.

Another thing. One time, way before the playground incident we were in geography, being told about the tectonic plates or something. There was this fly buzzing around. It was really pissing me off. I remember...it flew past where Melanie was sitting on the other side of the room. She saw it, and BAM! Clapped her hands and caught it. Some people saw, and even applauded. Miss told her to go to the bathroom to clean up the mess.

But I watched as she left the room. And I swear to God as she went through that door, her eyes darted around shiftily. Then she _licked_ the squashed fly off her hand. Only I saw it. I didn't say anything though because we were five, and I wasn't really her friend so much then.

And then there was Kobe. It was all over the news. On January 17 1995 the great Hanshin earthquake shook the Japanese city to its foundations. I remember the picture of a wonky road bridge, cracked it two and shaken out of shape as if it were melted in the sun. That alone was scary.

But even worse, Melanie had to be pulled out of school because she had family there. A lonely week passed. The whole time I couldn't stop thinking about it, and hoped she was okay. Lots of people had been rescued. I thought the Japanese had to be pretty good at saving people from earthquakes because they were supposed to happen a lot over there.

Melanie came back on a freezing morning, and I ran to meet her. I stopped running when I saw her face. She looked haunted, empty. I didn't know what to say.

"They were all dead." She muttered in a voice so tiny I could barely hear her. Some boys were fighting behind us, and one of them kept shrieking. "I just thought you should know if you wonder why I'm sad."

I never asked about her family again. I didn't question what she meant by "all". Just an uncle? Some cousins, perhaps. Either way I didn't know what to say. Sure, the news was shocking. But, at the time, I didn't know how to deal with it. Fate is very, very cruel. On some in life it piles every piece of shit it possibly can early on so it leaves them twisted, angry and mistrustful. That's a sad truth when it comes to so many criminals. I'm an officer; I should know. Others it is kind to, nuzzling up to them with happiness and false security, only to tear it apart later in life, when something bad happens to someone they love. I learned that from my parent's divorce.

But Melanie kept on smiling in the end. Shining like that sun she loved she shone right through it. Now she's one of the happiest people I know, on the outside anyway.

Thanks fate. Breaking Melanie. Shattering me.

Taking the wisest, the bravest of us all and turning his own kind against him. Leaving him in a world full of people he was born to hate. And who now hate him, for what he did in the past.

Such a being is a dangerous one.


	4. Chapter 4: A MEMORY

_Doctor-"...Right. Yes. Okay then. Just hold still; no, don't try to move, not just yet. Yeah. Cor, you could catch tetanus off these! Look at that! Rusty! Goodness gracious..._

_Well, look at you! Congratulations! Welcome back from the dead! I haven't a clue exactly why you're still alive, by the way. Guy at the camps; he lived too. Ed Harrison; lovely bloke by the way. Thought I'd just come and check..."_

_Me-"You came. As was...foretold. You come...in the legends...at the end of things. You come to gloat."_

_Doctor-"Oh come on. No, don't be afraid. I won't hurt you. Try to breathe slowly._

_Bit of blood. Nah, nothing serious. Probably just bit your tongue when you fell over. Gosh, I hate it when that happens! Get ulcers _

_It hurts, doesn't it? _

_How did it feel when he shot you, eh?_

_Not nice. Not nice at all._

_Well, that's how they all felt. Five thousand volts. Nervous system should explode; I'm not surprised. They all felt it too, the same, slow pain. They all screamed like you too. Screamed like a girl you did."_

_Me-"It was...wrong. Those deaths."_

_Doctor-"No. Wrong doesn't quite cut it. I'm not sure I can forgive you for that."_

_Me-"We...we knew no better. We just...killed. We had to survive."_

_Doctor-"Yes. And look at you now. Yeah. Pity about the others though."_

_Me-"To what are you refering...NO."_

_Doctor-"Yeah. the experiment failed, by the way. Your Daleks are dead."_

_Me-"...And the hybrids?"_

_Doctor-"Went rogue. He did a genocide. Ran off. Can't say I didn't have anything to do with it._"

_Me-"...He is still alive? Where did he go? Tell me."_

_Doctor-"I don't want to think about it, personally."_

_Me-"...He...is the only pure example...of my kind left in the universe."_

_Doctor-"Yes." _

_Me-"And if you had not been present...THEY ALL WOULD HAVE STILL BEEN ALIVE! You are the true destroyer Doctor!"_

_Doctor-"You wanted my help! I tried! And you, you saved me twice! Come on, that must mean something; some value!"_

_Me-"I should have let them destroy you!"_

_Doctor-"But you didn't! And I didn't want to assist you! I could have scrapped your little plan and left you dead in the sewers? But did I? No! And that was because I believed you could lead them into the light."_

_Me-"AND NOW WE ARE NOTHING! YOU FAILED US..."_

_Doctor-"No, calm down. Don't move too much, you're still too weak. You can't die. I won't let you." _

_Me-"We failed..._I_ failed...We were destined for destruction."_

_Doctor-"But you lived. And, if I may say so, that's some sort of miracle, and you really don't seem to give a toss."_

_Me-"...It does not matter. They are extinct."_

_Doctor-"Well, Daleks never did value life, did they?"_

_Me-"_I am not_ a Dalek."_

_Doctor-"Then what are you? A human? you'll never call yourself that! There, see? Didn't think so."_

_Me-"I am nothing."_

_Doctor-"Never say that. Never ever say that. You are something incredible. Trust me; I've seen all of you. Nobody isn't important, especially not you."_

_Me-"...And you know how it is to be alone in the universe."_

_Doctor-"Of course._

_..._

_Listen. I'm going to give you another chance."_

_Me-"...What?"_

_Doctor-"I said I'm letting you go. Well; those aren't the words, but its fully implied. Hah! Purgatory! Humans have this concept called purgatory; some place between life and death, some place to be before you can get to heaven or hell. Well; this is yours. And it's called 20__th__ centaury New York City."_

_Me-"You are suggesting that I stay here? Among humanity? But..."_

_Doctor-"Aww, come on, it's not as bad as you think. Good food, the fine arts, nice places to go on holiday, well, if you have the money."_

_Me-"...But we have no concept of-"_

_Doctor-"Take it. I'm letting you live; your greatest enemy letting you live. Do what you like with it. But I'll tell you this. Put one step out of line, and the people on this island will tear you to pieces. And I won't be there to stop them, sorry. Got to take Martha home. I'll tell the men the same. They'll listen, but they're baying for your blood. _

_Oh, by the way, one of your slaves survived too. You might want to avoid him. _

_Me-"Doctor, no, you cannot."_

_Doctor-"Someone's coming. They'll be here for the bodies. _

_I'd run if I were you."_

__It ran.


	5. Chapter 5: Big Apple (And an artichoke)

In the end it takes a bagel. The vision of a bagel, with warm toasted bread stuffed with salty, juicy bacon and crisp fried onions, to get me out of the flat. I can barely keep down whatever concoction I decided to develop to create a cure for myself.

The reality is a sad, rather cold bread bun, with wet onions and bacon that falls out before I have the chance to take a bite.

And I still have a headache.

But I make my way, 6 am along the sidewalks, taking in the wonderful scent of car fumes and cigarette butts, and appreciating the raw stench of sewage coming from a drain. Mmmmm. I heart NY. Uhu. Whatever you say.

Today's the day. Oh yeah Melanie. I'm quitting the force. Next month; I'm going to be in CU.

Yes, Columbia university. I refused a place at Columbia.

I only scraped getting in though. And at the time; let's just say I was a little more messed up than I am now. And I didn't want to spend the rest of my life studying to get paedophiles out of jail.

Now being a lawyer seems comparatively glamorous.

The buildings are creating shade. But the sun still shines white above them. And there it is; the Empire State Building, silhouetted against it. I pause, at a corner, while a guy wheels a trash can past.

Something small. But these are the moments. These are the gems. Those odd moments, when suddenly I wonder if I should like where I live. Manhattan Island. One of the most wanted destinations in the world.

The broken dream. Oh such a deliciously patronising metaphor. I love to hate it.

I walk on, suddenly feeling a little chilly.

There's a guitar playing.

Maybe I'm still drunk. Maybe it's in my head.

But as I round the corner, under the canopy of a small indie café, there's a busker playing an acoustic in some minor key. He's thin. He would have been attractive if it wasn't for the greasiness of his hair, his little trilby and the straggly beard on his pale, pale face.

I stop, my foot tapping to the beat. Funny, but the sound he makes reflects how I feel.

"Sounding good." I tell him. He looks up, and a look of panic creeps into his blue eyes. On his bear arms, I can't help notice tracks snaking along his blood vessels.

"Yeah." He agrees slowly. "Playing music. Creating the mood. Is that illegal officer?"

I look down, suddenly remembering that I'm wearing my cop uniform still.

"Huh? Oh! No, really! I meant it." I try to laugh. He smiles, a thin wide grin. "It's beautiful."

He raises an eyebrow. Suddenly I'm embarrassed.

"...You go sir. Keep it up." I say.

"Can't argue with the law."

I turn to contiunue on my way. No, wait. He looks kind of familiar. I'm good with faces.

"Actually, sorry; do I know you from anywhere?" I ask.

My shaggy friend blinks, puffs out his cheeks.

"Umm, all the want ads in the papers? That's me. No; I don't think so." A fire engine screams past. Another thing to fear. Then he says "Lewis Coleman?"

I smile. the bastard. Then shake my head.

"No, sorry. Have a good morning."

I set off to my soon to be ex-job. While I try to wrestle with the identity of this blond razor blade. Maybe it was in high school? Maybe he'd just been playing before. Maybe it was no big deal, I should stop being such a fanny and concentrate. Grr.

The sun is beginning to creep across the street, forcing the shade to recline.

Of course! I know him! I've seen him! Sixth grade! Must have been when I'd just turned twelve.

Oh. Which also means...

That was when...

It was June. Tony O'Neil had been following me home; Melanie had been off with a summer bug, so I was on my own. Tony O'Neil was this big guy from the grade above who kind of reminded me of a baboon with his dark hair and jutting lower lip. Favourite pastime: using smaller kids as punchbags. I was too hot. Heat made people get angry. And our school was kind of squashed between two large buildings, so the heat was being made into a sun trap. Everything had kind of gone hazy.

Didn't know why he was picking on me. I didn't have any money, and he was too lacking in the brain department to think of doing anything more sinister. Once I was past the bus lot, he began shouting.

"Hey you! Yeah you with the pigtails! I wanna talk to you!"

Heads turned. Other girls in their groups, with their Alice bands, rainbow plastic jewellery were giggling, looking to see who had made the noise; who was predator, who was prey. None were going to come to my aid; they didn't want to get punched.

Oh brother, I'd thought as O'Neil began to push through the crowd. Then I'd done something a little rash.

I jumped into the road.

The bonnet of a red Chrysler slammed to a halt on my left and I saw the driver swear. No matter; I was across. But I kept running, pounding down the street in my flashing sneakers. Pushing past mothers with prams and kids from the high school. I heard someone shout; didn't know if it was that jerk Tony or not. Breathing was beginning to hurt.

I skidded down a side street, realising too late that it was the wrong one. It was empty, the sun catching off broken glass and beer cans; decaying chip packets grinned their cheesy titles up at me while old newspapers and printed pieces flapped as I passed.

The Machine was about ten yards away from me when I skidded to a halt, suppressing a yelp as I almost fell.

It was just waiting there, like a parked car; silhouetted against the backdrop of rooftops, windows and vents ahead. Instantly recognisable. It hadn't seen me.

Seen me. Yes. I used personification when thinking of it, even at that tender age.

I stopped, not knowing what to do. I recognised the block beyond, so I could just pass through and get on my way. But that thing was in the way, and the idea of passing was making me nervous.

_So what?_ I thought. _It's just a stupid cleaning machine or something. You're being a wuss. What's it going to do._

Still I had doubts. I was feeling pretty cocky. I'd nearly been hit by a car. I nearly died. I was immortal that afternoon. So I decided to try something out.

Carefully I stooped to the ground. Picked up an old soda can. It had a thin, unpleasant layer of grime on it, but I wasn't fussed. It was quite light, but heavy enough to travel well if thrown. I raised it, preparing to hurl it with my famous Birchwood over arm. The machine made a humming sound, as its head turned, facing away from me.

"Hey!"

The shout came just as the can struck the target on the fenders with a satisfying clang, making it turn abruptly. I jumped about a foot, swung round in surprise, having thought I was alone.

Perched on a wall, a good few metres high there sat a boy. Thin, pale-ish face. Hair cut like Leonardo Dicaprio in _Titanic_. Wearing a leather biker jacket and torn jeans. Eyes like ice. He was giving me a look of mild contempt, stooped like a crow.

"Do you know what that thing is?" He asked me. His voice reverberated excellently off the walls of the alley. Suddenly, I felt very small. Very inferior to this rock God above me. I'd seen him around. He was in O'Neil's year. Was I shaking?

Nervously, I risked a glance at my target. The blue light was turned on me, glowing fiercely.

I shook my head.

Casually, as if on a bench, the boy pushed off the wall, landing with a slam on his feet. Litter and dust blew up around him.

"I'll tell you." He told me, as if I was holding an extremely poisonous insect.

"It's a machine that kills people."

His voice resonated. Through my little eleven-year-old head. I felt like my eyes would fall out my head I stared so much. This kid said it, so simply, so clean. _Its kills people_.

The boy towered over me, and at that moment I wasn't sure what scared me more. Him? Or that..._thing_ down the alley. That thing that killed people.

"Y-you don't know that." I managed to mumble. He was trying to scare me. He had to be.

"Sure I do." He retorted. I remember how I could see every freckle on his face, how his flaxen hair hung like a curtain. The way his eyes narrowed, like some predatory beast. "It's not pretty. The guys scream. They twitch too. It's fucking gross." He was taking steps forward, me backing away, feeling my eyes tingle.

"Sometimes he uses his plunger. You turn to dust and your skin cracks like china, like a fucking mummy. And if he did it to a little brat like you, no-one would even give a shit."

I wanted to scream, and as my foot hit a dumpster I realised I couldn't run.

I wanted him to stop.

He had to stop.

I had to get away, somewhere, anywhere. But away from that nightmare thing.

"So if I were you I'd back off." The boy concluded. "Don't go pissing with things you know shit about, okay? 'Cos otherwise-"

A light flashed at the end of the alley.

"LEWIS!"

The shout was a grating, metallic bark. And it came from the machine. The machine that killed people. I didn't know it could talk. I was shocked. And now was turning down the alley towards us, making a low, purring engine sound. I noticed that the boy was clenching his fists. My chest heaved. I was going to throw up.

The machine halted, and the kid stood up, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Another blue eye focused on me. That of the Machine. It focused like the lenses of a camera

That was the first time I saw it, properly I guess. No longer just a fleeting glimpse from the sidewalk. Now it was so close, so real, and right in front of me, I saw how solid it was. It was a geometric artefact, inelegant in places. But now it had texture, and it had aged. On the lower part of its form, under the columns of black orbs that adorned its bodywork, a lichen-like cluster of rust had accumulated, not a lot, but enough to notice. The rivets and panels appeared likewise. Scratches scraped across the paintwork. Traffic dust gave the Machine a dull, aged look. It was like an old car that had been well worn, but had not been taken particularly good care of. Was the boy lying? Would I die now?

The Machine turned its terrible camera eye away from me, focusing on the boy. It threw a blue circle of light onto his face.

"WE MUST LEAVE." It announced the voice loud, mechanical. Then it purred away, towards the street. The kid followed, turning to scowl at me one more time.

"YOU WILL FIND IT TO YOUR ADVANTAGE TO WITHOLD YOUR FIRE IN FUTURE. DALEKS ARE NOT KNOWN FOR THEIR MERCY." It announced, bulbs flashing like indicators.

I waited until it had disappeared.

Still standing. Alive. The relief!

Never before had I arrived home so early. And for the next few months I was an insomniac, a truant, and a wimp that wouldn't leave the porch.

That kid was the guy playing guitar. He hadn't recognised me. Not as if I mattered. I figure it's kind of ironic, seeing him that way, busking. Less of Axl Rose, more of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo.

I spoke about fear, when I begun this tale. That was what I meant. I joined the Force to prove I wasn't afraid. I could handle the world. Know how to deal with killer robots. Kick it about a little in the process.

How wrong I was about that.

It's just gone six, and I am walking through the Vegetable market that springs up on Saturdays. This is Hell's Kitchen. I pass under the cool canopy of a browning beach, my eyes focused on the white marquees ahead, while people bump and mingle around me. I'm so glad I ditched the uniform at my crash pad, because otherwise I might just rip it to shreds. In public. Which could be very awkward, as so many innocents would see the awful, awful spectre that is my un-waxed stomach. Hell's Kitchen sounds appropriate at the moment, what with the red brick tenements, the food and my anger. It was here, still only a hundred years ago that the cynical population of Irish immigrants once lived in their thousands, their anger and violent personalities making them too evil to sweep the devil's floor. To this day, porn stores and brothels can still be found, if you know where to look. But since the house prices have rocketed, making it an expensive dwelling and causing yet more anger.

Conversations buzz; happy people, young lovers, friends, middle aged people all looking for foot. The brazen shouts of sellers skim over heads, announcing last chances and reductions in price. Why can't I be the one shouting? I need to shout. Or at least kick a few puppies.

Let's put it this way. My resignation did not go well.

I had staggered into the Boss's office. He raised an eyebrow as I explained that I was leaving, while telephones buzzed, and the air of the little box of a room was stirred by an electric fan. The air con needed fixing.

Once I had finished, the Captain leaned forward, pushing his dark fingers into a steeple shape.

"You want to quit. Sure. May I ask why?"

I roll my eyes.

"Sir, I'm just not suited to the job."

"You've shown a lot of potential. I've been impressed. You're a recruit officer now and you made it in good time."

"But Sir, I have a place at CU, and if I apply now they'll let me back in."

My boss stared, his black head reflecting the sun. Then started to snigger, rocking and shaking his head.

"You got an offer from _Columbia_? Man; you kept that one quiet Birchwood! You sure they didn't make a mistake; 'cos you certainly did by not taking it in the first place."

I stood there sweating and blushing, hoping it was too hot and I might melt. Tried to smile. But then Captain Johnson went all serious.

"Besides; it's not as simple as that. May I remind you that all resignations need to be given a week's notice."

I blinked. I didn't remember that as part of the system.

"I...wasn't aware of that."

"Well," He began to play with the miniature Zen garden that lay among the clutter of his desk. "Striclty speaking you could hand in your badge right now. But, to be honest, I'm not going to let you do that."

"Pardon?"

"No. Think it over. This is the real world Birchwood. You do better here in the real world than being locked away in with all those books and academic crap."

The bastard! He was keeping me here! I had rights, didn't I?

"But-"

"One week. Then you can go. But don't piss around with this because I want you to know that that is what you want to do." He smiled, loftily. "I'm saying you're a good cop."

"I already know."

"We'll see then."

I pursed my lips. Tried to think of a bombshell. What would Melanie say? Nothing came.

"Thank you Sir." I mumbled, before leaving the office like a sulky child. I pushed out into the noise and bustle, pushing past the grey separators to get back to my cubicle. That's how I felt. Shut away in my little box.

A botanical scent reaches my nostrils as I amble past a stall selling fruit and vegetables. Lying in boxes, pile upon pile upon pile; many different colours; apples green and red, and asparagus in bunches, bananas, oranges, peppers, pears, artichokes, even marrows and squashes and pumpkins, packed in their little white containers. The seller is a pot-bellied man in a chequered shirt, bawling in a heavy accent. Why do they yell like that, I wonder? It's a form of intimidation.

I walked the same way as I came, looking for the busker. Lewis, the busker. Like I care. Naturally he was gone.

Now I'm here I begin to take an interest. I'm not the cooking type. Nor the veggie type for that matter. But the prices aren't too ridiculous, and it all looks kind of lovely laid out like Plenty's Horn. Next to me a little woman wearing thick glasses is putting pears into a paper bag, chatting happily to the seller. I shrug. Begin to do likewise, reach for the pile. Can I hear the sound of cowbells? How curious. Where is it coming from? Under the table?

That's when something weird happens.

Out of the corner of my eye, where I can see the lady's hand hovering, I see the pears begin to move. Shift, like something is hiding in there. Then...

A pair of eyes poke up, on stalks, like a silver slug. They twitch, little black dots flickering in their centre. Then there follows a head, about the size and shape of a Football on its side.

_Tonk tonk _it goes.

The woman has frozen. Her little wizened face frames her mouth that opens and shuts. I also realise I have forgotten to breathe.

Now the shop clerk too. Staring, mouth open, as if wondering if he's drunk or not.

But we all think the same thing.

What the _hell_ is it?

There's a pear themed explosion as the creature suddenly leaps out of the box, and several people shriek. It lands with a clang on all fours, then inspects us with its antenna eyes. They are covered in little silver scales. It's whole body resembles that of a squat dinosaur, or a crocodile. A large, fanning dorsal fin spreads from its back, each prong looking like a knife. It is about the size of a terrier. And it appears, as far as I can see, to be made _entirely_ out of metal.

Then it runs. I watch as feet frantically shuffle, people scream and whimper, as it runs along, making the clanging sound of a cowbell all the way. It parts the crowd. Some take pictures on their camera phones. But I live for the memories. And that was certainly the weirdest shit I've ever seen. The creature runs, probably frightened, darting across the boulevard until it disappears down a set of cellar steps. Gone.

The crowd recovers. Some people laugh nervously. Others crowd around where it's hiding. A brown haired girl with hoop earrings clings on to her boyfriend, whimpering that she dislikes reptiles. Fish will ride bikes before that thing is a reptile. Questions buzz. What was it? Where did it come from.

Perhaps I should tell Melanie. We were going to meet up. Yeah. That may be good.

Tell her about it. She usually has an opinion on these sorts of things.


End file.
